By Josie Whitehead
The flames dance warmly in the grate;
The clock strikes twelve – it’s getting late.
I drowse before these flickering flames
Watching shadows playing games.
Bright horses prancing on my walls;
Lithe figures dancing in grand halls;
Gilt flashes spitting dragon's breath
And sparks that dance the dance of death.
The shimmering shadows surge and curl,
With snaking shapes that wildly whirl.
Golden flames with florid tongues
Exhaling smoke from fiery lungs.
The shadows rise and fall with ease;
On walls they tango, twist and tease.
I start to yawn and then to doze,
And gradually my eyelids close.
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